Off
by GamingMama6
Summary: (Story 1B in my timeline; set during 'Reinvent'.) A story where Geralt is troubled, and Yennefer helps him sort out his thoughts. One-shot fluffy but serious conversation where Geralt and Yennefer realize how far they have come. Contains references to both the games and the books, with mild spoilers of both.


**Off**

(Author's Note: This story contains references and mild spoilers to the TW3 and the Witcher books.)

Something was off, and Geralt couldn't quite put his finger on it. He shifted in his bed, careful not to disturb the mattress lest he woke a certain raven-haired sorceress before she deemed herself ready to be woken. Leaning his head against his hand and propping himself up on one elbow, he reached to caress the soft skin on Yennefer's sleeping shoulder – exposed, smooth, and somehow retaining its cold temperature even in their warm Touissant abode. His fingers tingled at the contact, and he marveled at how that sensation hadn't worn dull – not even a little bit – after so many years.

Yennefer rewarded the touch with a contented moan that seemed to put her into an even deeper sleep. He smiled, and caught himself doing it. He seemed to be doing that a lot these days – smiling.

His mind returned again to the nagging feeling that something was off, was different from what he had known and had ever been trained to know. It was an uncomfortable sensation that had put him more and more on edge recently.

Geralt kissed Yennefer's shoulder, the same shoulder, and gingerly lifted himself out of bed. He was loathe to get up while his love was still nude and looking so damn beautiful in his – their – bed, but the more sensible part of his mind told him to go take a walk. Anytime the Witcher had faced a situation where he sensed something was wrong, every part of him would race into survival mode, adrenaline coursing through him to keep him alert, active, and – ultimately – alive. That was how he was designed, and he knew he would never be able to stay in bed in this state without being so agitated that he woke Yennefer up prematurely. (And one does not wake Yennefer up prematurely.)

From among the many items of clothing strewn about the room during their heated rush to disrobe one another the previous night, Geralt found a shirt that he decided was clean enough, as well as a pair of sleeping trousers which, despite his donning every night before bed, he had never actually slept in. They were comfortable, though, so he pulled on the dark blue garment and threw on the pale shirt over his head. He spared a thought on tracking down some shoes but decided against it; he enjoyed the feel of warm cobblestone and fertile soil beneath his feet, so he ventured out of the house barefoot.

Perfunctorily but still with sincerity, Geralt greeted the workers in his courtyard who called out various forms of salutations to him, sometimes looking surprised to see him about so early in the morning. He knew some of his workers' names now, and there would come a day very soon when he would know them all, but he didn't want to force it. He had an inborn distaste for relationships forged unnaturally, so he hoped that his workers would be contented in the meantime by casual waves and sporadic _good morning'_ s until such time that they and the master of their estate grew to know one another better.

Geralt took a turn at the end of the courtyard and stepped across one of the rustic bridges leading to his vineyard, then walked purposefully in the direction least populated by workers. Once he was far enough from curious eyes (Was it really that strange to see him out of bed before noon?), he slowed his pace considerably. He believed that he had a lot of thinking to do, and if he walked too quickly, he would end up pacing laps around the vineyard before he could formulate a single string of coherent thoughts.

Slowly, as he put one foot in front of the other, he prodded his mind. _So, what's off?_ he asked himself. _What's wrong this time?_ He wasn't aware of any dangers facing him or his loved ones – imminent or otherwise, but he couldn't shake the feeling that _something_ was just… awry would be a good word. And the Witcher in him wanted, needed to identify just what exactly was awry so that he could throw himself into defeating whatever threats it brought. Try as he might, though, he was just not coming up with a clear answer.

 _Did I miss something with the Detlaff contract?_ He crossed off that possibility after meticulously combing his memory to check whether every loose end was tied. They were, just as they had been the countless times he had done this mental exercise since Regis had departed Touissant.

 _Is the Lodge after Yen again?_ He didn't trust any of those sorceresses as far as he could throw them, and the fact that Fringilla Vigo was now back in Touissant as Acting Court Mage brought bile to his mouth, but as far as he knew, the Lodge wanted as little to do with Yennefer as she with them. That was to say, absolutely nothing at all. Save perhaps Triss – Geralt felt a weight of guilt lifting off his shoulders now that Yennefer and Triss seemed to be slowly rebuilding their old friendship after he had (mostly inadvertently) broken it. There was still much to repair between the two women, but even so, Geralt trusted that Triss was no longer the same girl who had put the Lodge's ambitions above her friends' safety. If the Lodge were to take aim at Yennefer, Geralt, or Ciri again, he believed that Triss would either try to dissuade its leader Philippa, or would at least warn Geralt about it. So no word from Triss most likely meant no cause for concern. Meaning that wasn't his answer, either.

Slowly, one by one, Geralt continued cycling through then mentally crossing off any and every possible threat that could befall him or his loved ones. He couldn't come up with a satisfactory answer. _Am I just worried about Ciri on the Path?_ He paused for a moment, both mentally and in his walking. _Maybe_ , he weighed, but he was no more worried about her now than when they'd first parted ways months ago – and his nagging feelings had only started recently. That was so far the most likely culprit for the sensations gnawing at him, but even that answer fell short of convincing him that he'd identified the true cause of his consternation.

He began to walk again, subconsciously lacing his fingers behind his back and staring at the ground like the old man he denied he was becoming, but in less than a few paces, he ran into a view of black lace blocking his path. He stopped just a hair short of bowling Yennefer over, though he noticed that she was rooted firmly in place and was quite unlikely to have gotten out of his way even if he hadn't stopped in his tracks. She wore an expression that contained both amusement and exasperation, her hands on her hips, her weight resting on one leg, though her eyes bore no edge. They rarely did these days.

"I'm just thinking about something," he answered the unasked question. "Just…" He trailed off, unsure what to say about his thoughts, especially as he was unsure what those thoughts even were.

"I'm aware." She must have anticipated his protest, as she continued without allowing him the time to gather his words. "No, I wasn't reading your thoughts, Witcher. You forget, often, Geralt, that I know you. I know you well, and I certainly know when your mind is troubled. You also forget, often, that I'm quite an intelligent woman and therefore useful in helping you sort out these troubles."

"I'll be honest, Yen," he said openly, "I don't even know what these troubles are. I just know that-"

"Something is wrong," she finished for him, ignoring his annoyed grunt. "Geralt, despite my penchant for peering into your mind – which I admittedly do mostly because I enjoy observing you devise new ways to bring pleasure to my body – I promise you, I do not actually like to pry. I respect your privacy, Geralt-"

He raised an eyebrow.

"-or I'm learning to, at least. So I will not force you to divulge yourself. I will only remind you, and only this once as I'm not wont to repeat myself, that we're better together, you and I. There have been far too many instances in our long history when we have ignored this lesson, and thinking back on those times, particularly on all of the unfortunate consequences that followed, I cannot fathom why we would've been so foolish."

What she said caused his heart to knock, once, against his chest. She was right, of course; they were better together, always. He'd long believed that, but it made him feel good to hear that she believed it, too. Sighing – because despite knowing that it was wisest to let her in, he still didn't relish the thought of not being able to solve his own problems – he told Yennefer everything. Not that there was much to tell, and he purposely forgot to tell her the part about Fringilla Vigo and why that name evoked such bitterness in him, but even the sparse information he did provide led Yennefer to adopt a pensive demeanor.

They stood facing but not quite looking at each other, in a far section of the vineyard where grapevines had yet to grow onto the waiting rows of trellis. The sun was now readying itself to exude its powerful Touissant heat. Geralt noted absently that it was likely around nine in the morning, then felt a passing pang of panic that if Yennefer was awake this early, then it was almost certainly because of him; maybe he hadn't been as careful getting out of bed as he'd thought. She was all business right now, sure, but she would make him pay for waking her after their talk; he was certain of it. He cursed inwardly and suddenly found himself wishing this talk would last a very, very long time – preferably long enough for her to grow tired and fall asleep in his arms, only to wake naturally and bearing no ill will anymore. Bearing perhaps a different intention toward him altogether.

He chanced a glance at her and found her scrutinizing him with her violet eyes. She continued to stare at him in silence, her expression changing a few times, each time leaving him feeling more uncomfortable and awkward under her prolonged, piercing gaze. "Uh, should we sit?" he proposed, hoping to disrupt whatever was going on.

"Geralt," she said slowly, purposefully, in a way that would've made an ordinary man quiver in fear. But since Geralt of Rivia was no ordinary man, the sound of Yennefer saying his name like that only left his mouth very dry. She kept her eyes steady on him for a few moments longer, and as he was striving to think of another way to break the dense silence, she asked him something that shocked him, rocked him to his core. "What would you do if we broke up?"

He blinked, hard. Panic surged through him, simultaneously dropping to the pit of his stomach and rising up his constricted throat. He couldn't answer or even think, and suddenly he felt that same worried sensation that had been merely gnawing at him now swell into what seemed like a living, breathing beast threatening to devour him whole. Yennefer must have noticed his visceral reaction to her question, as she hurriedly touched a concerned hand to his cheek.

"It's a hypothetical, my love," she rushed out, visibly distraught at his reaction, "only meant to help you sort through your troubles."

"By creating more troubles?" He'd found his voice, and his voice was angry. "What the fuck was that, Yen? Why would you ask something like that? Are you fucking thinking about it?"

"Only a hypothetical," she restated firmly, a little bit more defensive and possibly irked at having to repeat herself, but no less concerned.

He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the anger in him to pass, even if just momentarily, so that he could listen to what she had to say. She was a damn smart person, his Yen, and he knew that she didn't speak idly, wouldn't provoke him like this without cause.

Geralt swallowed and took one, two, three steadying breaths, then opened his eyes to look at Yennefer. He judged from the defiance in her expression that he must have still been glowering at her, but it was the best he could do for now. She would have to deal with this glower; she was the one who'd caused it.

Yennefer softened after a surprisingly short moment, then moved her hand along his cheek, stroking it lovingly and soothingly. He had forgotten that she had placed it there earlier. "Geralt," she breathed, and something in her voice caused his anger, all of it, to dissipate. "I worry, too. It _is_ so new to us, after all."

"What is, Yen?" He covered her hand with his and brought it from his cheek to rest on his chest, above his heart. She'd once told him how much she adored feeling the beating of his heart.

"Hope, Geralt," she replied softly. "You and I, we'd never known hope in our past. Not in our professions, certainly not in our childhoods, and not, sadly, ever in our relationship. Everything we did, alone or together, was tainted with fear, anger, regret, pain, loneliness, jealousy, even hatred. Even in the orchard in Avalon, our love was set against a backdrop of banishment and death and longing for our daughter. This, here, now, is the first time we've ever experienced hope – hope for a future unencumbered by any of those hideous feelings. And damn it, I'm not afraid to admit this, but it scares the knickers straight off my backside sometimes, having this much hope, being this vulnerably happy."

The corners of his lip tugged upward as the unbidden image of Yennefer's knickers slipping off her backside entered his mind, but he refocused himself quickly. Hope. New. Scary. It was all true.

"I suppose, Yen," he said gruffly, pulling her to him and resting his forehead on hers. He felt rather than saw her close her eyes at the intimate gesture. "But what the hell was with that question earlier?"

"I wanted you to see it for yourself," she answered, pulling back slightly and opening her eyes to look at him. "Those nagging feelings you've been having – when I asked you that question, did you experience them then? Maybe in fuller force?"

"Did I," he huffed. It wasn't a question but a way to vent out the last vestiges of that nasty sensation.

Then he understood.

"You think what I've been worried about is losing it all? Losing… this? Us?"

"Undoubtedly," she replied sagely. "And I conclude this not based on logical deduction or intuition, but on personal experience. Do you remember when I awoke in a cold sweat last week, Geralt?"

"I do," he responded. In his mind he saw the brief flash of the panic that he had so rarely seen in his love's usually composed eyes. She hadn't told him what her nightmare had been about; she had only allowed him to hold and calm her back to sleep, a power that he relished having.

"It was caused by the same worries which plague you now. You see, I, as you, am terribly in love. I, as you, had never been able to love so freely. And I, as you, had never known love to have a future. But that has changed now, hasn't it? We've no more enemies chasing us, we've a daughter who lives free and happy, we've an estate, Geralt, with bloody grapes growing out of it. But most of all, we've a relationship where we've finally, finally learned how to love one another the way we'd always craved to but couldn't before, whether due to external circumstances or sheer stupidity. And all of this, all of it, has brought me so much happiness with no tangible reason to believe it would need to end. In a word, Geralt, hope. That's what I've been experiencing, and the newness of it and the thought of it ending are so frightening that it is almost suffocating."

He expected her to keep talking – he was captivated – but she stopped.

He still had questions.

"Hope is a good thing, though. It's not supposed to be frightening or worrying." It didn't come out as a question, but he knew she understood his intention.

"Really, Geralt?" she challenged, half teasing, half serious. "Have you had much experience with hope in your long Witchering life to know this to be true?"

He thought about it. He knew she was right, but he wasn't one to just let her win without a fight. "What about that time in Gors Velen," he countered, "after Ciri ran away to see me, and you and I made up? I really thought we were going to be a family then."

She let out a little breath. _Ha!_ He thought. _Bested!_

"It's funny, but that is the same episode I keep comparing our current life with as well. I suppose we're starting to think more alike."

"High praise, that."

"But it was so short lived, Geralt. And to say that there had been no imminent fear would be false, at least for me. I may not have known what _Vilgefortz_ -" she still spoke that name with venom "-had been planning, but I knew, at the very least, that a rebellion was at hand. And I was aware that willing or not, Ciri would have a role in the war – that she would not have been allowed to live out her life in peace, not yet."

Geralt bit back a strong curse word for the anger he felt at the world's despicable obsession with his daughter.

"And that is my point: The closest thing we had ever experienced to hope was horror-ridden Gors Velen; that couldn't possibly be real hope, could it? But everything is different now. Ciri is no longer a little girl who needs our constant protection, and the world is no longer out to get her. I fear for her safety in the same way I fear for yours when you take contracts, but that is, I think, normal. Though before you respond with what you must undoubtedly believe to be an endlessly witty quip: No, I haven't had much experience with normalcy in my long Sorceressing life, so I can't possibly be sure what 'normal' is. All I know is that when each day ends, when I walk across our estate into our home and into your arms, my heart is light. And it will take some getting used to, but that feeling is here to stay. Through ups and downs, it's here to stay – so long as we will it to. In other words, we can and absolutely have the power to keep this hope alive if that is what we are determined to do. And I am determined to do just that, Geralt. I know you are, too."

She never ceased to amaze him. How was it that everything he was feeling and couldn't sort out, she had already felt and could so easily explain to him?

"Because I-"

"You know me," he interrupted her before she had a chance to repeat herself. He was rewarded with both a playful smirk and the immensely satisfying knowledge that he had successfully read the mind of Yennefer of Vengerberg, for once.

Geralt noted that throughout their entire conversation, they hadn't let go of one another, her hands resting on his chest and his on her waist. He pulled her in closer, and she obliged without hesitation, touching her lips to the nape of his neck. He shivered, happily, and tightened his arms around her, wrapping her in an embrace which he hoped would tell her everything he couldn't with words. She responded by snaking her arms around his neck and pressing herself, her whole being, against him, squeezing him, as if trying to melt into him. They stayed like that for a long time, lost in the openness of each other's love, adjusting to the hope that it brought. It still scared him, being so vulnerably happy, as she'd put it, but he allowed it to take him over. He realized he'd spent far too long fighting for this exact ending to their story just to bumble it because his mind was playing tricks on him.

"And Geralt?" Yennefer asked after planting a soft kiss on his lips, one hand back to caressing his cheek.

"Hmm?" He could barely speak, still so absorbed in the recent revelations and the nearness of her body, her intoxicatingly familiar scent.

"I will."

It took a few seconds for his brain to register that what she had said made no sense and should therefore confuse him. When it did, he opened his eyes to look at her quizzically.

"I will get you back for waking me, Witcher," she explained with fiery eyes. He hoped – there was that word again – that the fire in her eyes was one of passion, one where payback really meant making him personally satisfy every last demand of her body until she screamed out in spasms of pleasure and delight. But he was still new to this whole hope thing, and he suspected that maybe this particular hope was a bit too… hopeful.

He was right. She slapped his ass, hard, and he realized that there was fire not only in her eyes but on her hand, too. His sleeping trousers, the ones that had been faithfully awaiting their chance to fulfill their duties in his sleep, were on fire.

"Yen!" He roared and tore the garment off of himself, throwing it onto the dark soil. He looked incredulously between his heated ass cheek and his pitiful trousers, the fabric of which was quickly being consumed by flames. He heard her laughing a rare full-throated laugh, and he rounded on her, mischief, revenge, and his bare ass all playing equal parts into his plans. He picked her up and threw her over his shoulder ("Geralt!"), and his hand found its way past the slits of her skirt to her knickers, between her legs. He slipped one finger beneath them, hooked, and tore the fabric cleanly in a satisfying rip ("God _damn it_ , Geralt!"). He bent over in a sudden movement, almost slamming them into the soil before slowing at the last second. He lowered her onto the ground, his free hand pinning both of hers above her head, and looked into her expectant eyes.

"Now that we're even," he started. He didn't get to finish his sentence, as she expertly freed her legs to direct his body to where she wanted it to be, moving it into her how she wanted it to move. They got lost in each other's warmth, each other's breaths, sighs, moans, gasps. He released their hands, and they explored every part of one another's bodies that they had explored hundreds of times yet never tired of discovering. They moved, writhed, and slammed into one another, and were blindly unaware of the fact that the volume of their lovemaking was increasing rapidly.

And that not far enough away, a plethora of workers were trying to push onto each other the responsibility of cleaning up that corner of the vineyard.


End file.
